


December

by Chanonvic



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Explicit Sexual Content, I Don't Even Know, M/M, Post-World War II, Sorry Not Sorry, This is what I get for wanting angst to mean something, quasi-romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-31
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-18 13:47:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29119191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chanonvic/pseuds/Chanonvic
Summary: A decade later, and he's infatuated with Alfred. He doesn't lie to himself about it, but he doesn't act on it, either. Specifically, he appreciates the American might he's now dependent on. Kiku supposes a half-century ago he would've despised the situation as a sign of weakness, but now he just accepts it.---The unlikely budding post-war relationship.
Relationships: America/Japan (Hetalia)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 16





	December

**Author's Note:**

> Ironically, this fic has nothing to do with _November_.

By the year 1950, the all-consuming fire of rage coursing through him toward America is spent, replaced by an unsettlingly cool hollowness. Kiku is quite literally burnt out, and even the vague but tangible reminder of American troops stationed up and down his archipelago fail to incite a response. This becomes a thing he must live with. It's easier to do so when he remembers the century prior, when Alfred brought dawn back to the Land of the Rising Sun in the form of modernity. Sometimes, though, he recalls being burned by that light; his still-raw wounds ache anew, and yet he can't dredge the heat of vengeance. Those times, he feels emptier than ever, like his essence is spilling out of two gaping holes.

* * *

A decade later, and he's infatuated with Alfred. He doesn't lie to himself about it, but he doesn't act on it, either. Specifically, he appreciates the American might he's now dependent on. Kiku supposes a half-century ago he would've despised the situation as a sign of weakness, but now he just accepts it. Repentance or something.

Kiku suspects Alfred knows his feelings, sees it in the way the young nation shows off and waits for affirmation of his genius, in the way his grin lingers as he watches Kiku for a reaction to some idea or other. It is such an about-face from when they were at each other's throats that that alone almost makes Kiku give in to Alfred's attempts at wooing. _Almost_.

His suspicions are confirmed when baseball returns. Of all his inventions and customs, baseball is the one Alfred was proudest to show off. Kiku took to it like any amateur discovering they were kind of good at a new activity, but it's not until America's Golden Age that they get excited about it again, together. In other words, it's only when he lets Alfred teach him properly that love of the sport blossoms between them. And why shouldn't it? After all, baseball, unlike geopolitics, is simple.

Anyway, the sport takes off and gives them excuses to visit each other. There is nothing quite like the energy rippling through a crowd of fans packed into an open stadium united in pure competition. They're sitting beside each other for one such game, and Kiku turns to gloat or ask a question or something that doesn't matter anymore because Alfred is watching him intently and for once it doesn't burn, it just...simmers. Still, he can't help the reflexive heat rising in his face, not any more than he can help the roil of emotions swirling in his gut. The moment they spend watching each other seems to stretch on for an eternity longer than Kiku knows it really was. He snaps out of it when he sees Alfred swallow, sees resolution color his features, sees Alfred start to lean forward. Kiku turns away, quickly averting his gaze and doing his level to pretend that nothing had happened and nothing was going to happen.

He spends the rest of the game convincing himself that Alfred has no intentions toward him, that Alfred's willingness to spend time with him is a spoil of victory and/or to keep an eye on him. And as distantly disappointing as that prospect is, it's far better than forcing himself to confront the discomfort and guilt and frustration attached to the alternative. By the time they are leaving the stadium, Kiku thinks he can content himself with a budding friendship – still more than either deserved but welcome.

* * *

He's wrong, he realizes after they sleep together for the first time.

* * *

Arthur only comes around with Alfred now, and that sucks, but Kiku's glad for his company all the same. They never quite go back to being friends like before, but they're cordial and that has to count for something. Alfred seems to think so, or else is very content that they are agreeable to each other without having a full-on relationship without him. Kiku wonders if he should feel jealous – if Alfred expects him to – but he can't bring himself to, not with memories of the others' flushed-warm skin pressed against his and soft hair slipping through his fingers and breathy laughter ghosting across his navel still fresh in mind.

So, no, Kiku is not jealous. Annoyed, maybe, at the prospect of being shown off to Arthur (America really isn't as subtle as he thinks he is), but even that has its own charm. Besides, to the victors, indeed, belong the spoils, even if he is one of them.

* * *

They don't see each other in December for a long time. Even as their relationship tends toward the better, there's something reverent and insurmountable about that time of year that they both recognize without having to say it aloud (thankfully).

Years stretch into decades, however, and it's obvious after a while that Alfred thinks they're even, and Kiku is unable and unwilling to argue. So perhaps it's not surprising when Alfred invites him to his annual Christmas party some time in the seventies. And Kiku, polite companion that he is, of course accepts.

Somehow, it's not being in the States during the winter holidays that's the awkward part. Nor is it being around the former Allied Powers in a casual, distinctly non-political setting. He'd been around long enough to understand the unspoken rules of nationhood: _the affairs of government shall not spill over into civilian_ time. Besides, he could navigate tense atmospheres like the best of them.

No, the showstopper is when Alfred insists on his silly tradition that Kiku is sure only exists for Hollywood. His mind races as he tries to think of an excuse to shut Alfred down without offending him. After all, it's not like he's opposed to kissing Alfred – on the contrary, he's used to it. But what he's _not_ used to is the audience. The longer Kiku deliberates, the more emphatically Alfred dangles the mistletoe above them and the more attention they both attract. The other countries laugh and whistle, encouraging them and desperate for entertainment.

Just as Kiku thinks he'll die of mortification, Alfred sneaks his unoccupied hand around to the small of Kiku's back. The rest of the world doesn't quite fall away or anything absurd and romantic like that, but the touch imbues Kiku with a little American boldness so that he finally gives in and lets the other pull him in and plant a closed but long kiss on his lips. And maybe he even kisses back a little.

* * *

The memories of men are much shorter than those of nations. Less than a century later, and both Alfred's people and his have forgotten –

No, that isn't quite fair. They haven't forgotten, or else there wouldn't be memorials. It's just that the vitriol isn't there anymore.

Kiku takes after Alfred and commodifies his culture. Surprisingly, Americans lap it up, some to the point of obsession. His people even invent a word for those kinds, a coy inside joke doubling as an insult. He wonders as he tells it to Alfred if he deserves to have it, but then the other nation is laughing and shaking and radiating light and warmth. Alfred can take a joke.

* * *

Kiku is nothing if not inventive, so it's not shock written across Alfred's face. He's visiting for some convention or other and Kiku, good host that he is, invited Alfred to stay at his house instead of a hotel. However, he hadn't accounted for his guest to hear so soon (or at all, preferably) about his latest policy. Alfred hasn't even said anything yet; he's just waving the tablet displaying the incriminating news article in front of Kiku's face with a wry grin and other hand on his hip.

"This is, like, the equivalent of a booty call, you know that, right?" Alfred says finally.

Kiku scoffs to hide the discomfort that's already coloring his cheeks. He snatches the tablet and turns to toss it on the counter. "It's completely different," he contends without looking at Alfred.

Alfred sniffs a laugh, and there's a shift of fabric – Kiku imagines he's shoving his hands into his jeans pockets. "Sure, bud, whatever you say. Still," and his tongue stretches the word, and his tone dips low. That's all the warning Kiku gets before Alfred is pressing ever so lightly against him. He leans down a little so his lips are ghosting over Kiku's ear. "If you wanted someone in you, you only had to ask."

The breath catches in Kiku's throat, but he doesn't move or say anything, not wanting to give Alfred the satisfaction. At least not yet. "It was an open invitation," he says softly, though not without an undercurrent of nonchalance.

Alfred chuckles again and places his hands on the counter, essentially trapping Kiku. He presses closer, and Kiku can't tell if the warmth he's feeling is radiating from the other or prickling under his own skin. "Careful, Kiku," he purrs, "that makes you sound easy."

The last word forces a shudder to roll through him. He wants to protest Alfred's statement for the sake of it, but the barely-there contact is a reminder of the other's strength and willingness to use it for even the most salacious of purposes. So he turns, slowly so as not to appear too eager, and their bodies are barely a centimeter apart and the space still feels like a chasm. Alfred is watching him, amused and expectant. He waggles his eyebrows, and the last of Kiku's resolve evaporates.

When their lips meet, the very air around them seems to heat up, humming with feverish anticipation. Alfred isn't content, as he rarely is, with just skin to skin contact, so his teeth catch Kiku's bottom lip and tug, requesting more. Kiku allows him in, and soon Alfred's tongue is stroking his and drawing would-be gasps from him. Alfred's arms wind around his waist and draw him in closer. Their bodies are flush up against each other and even through the layers of fabric separating them, Kiku can feel the heat radiating from the other like California sun. He aches to remember what that skin feels like on his fingertips, and his hands absently start stroking Alfred's back, with each pass lifting his shirt just a tad higher.

After a while, Alfred disentangles a little to yank his shirt off completely (though managing to keep on his glasses) before leaning in again. This time, he presses a kiss to Kiku's jaw before saying, "That better?" and chuckling. The sound of it rumbles in Alfred's throat, and Kiku can feel it with him this close, and it's almost erotic. He doesn't respond outright, but his hand finds Alfred's hair, and that's answer enough. Alfred's lips latch onto the skin of Kiku's throat, and his mind races through his schedule for the next few weeks searching for public appearances and meetings with delegates. He practically sighs in relief when he comes up blank, but then Alfred's teeth graze his skin and he can't remember why he should even worry at all. He tightens his grip on the blond hair and brings his other hand to rake over Alfred's bare back. Alfred hums appreciatively.

Alfred sucks and nibbles his way to Kiku's collar bone and finally decides the other's clothes are in the way. He detaches and pushes the jacket off Kiku's shoulders and slides the shirt over his torso. The temptation for skin-to-skin contact is too much for Alfred, Kiku can see it in his face even before he holds onto the front of Kiku's pants to pull them flush against each other into another kiss. He doesn't break the kiss even as he fumbles to unclasp the front of Kiku's pants. Kiku takes pity on him eventually and pulls away with a smirk to do it himself. Alfred doesn't complain, just uses the opportunity to quickly undo and step out of his own.

Kiku doesn't rush. He relishes having Alfred's undivided attention, enjoys the sight of the growing pile of clothes on the floor, is pleased by the feeling of the cloth sliding down his legs. He doesn't look at Alfred just yet when he's stepped out of the pants and tossed them somewhere in a rare show of carelessness. Instead, he looks around for an opportune surface. As nice as the counter would have been, it's too tall for comfort. His gaze settles on the table and the decision is made. He walks over, presses his palms down on it to reassure himself of its sturdiness, and looks over his shoulder to the other nation.

Alfred gives him a sweeping look and pokes his tongue out like he's about to lick his lips and thinks better of it. Then, he's practically tripping over himself to come over. He stops halfway to crouch down and rifle through his discarded jeans pockets for something. After a few moments, he holds up a small bottle triumphantly.

Kiku lifts an eyebrow. "You were carrying that around?"

Surprisingly, Alfred nods. "After I saw the article, I figured you might _proposition_ me." He snickers, presumably about the irony of the situation, and stands to step out of his underwear. He wastes no time in slotting himself against Kiku's body and rutting a little along his crevasse. He leans forward a bit to capture Kiku's lips again. There's a sharp pop of the bottle's cap opening, and then Alfred is shoving him forward so that he's landing on the table on his elbows. He grunts at the impact but otherwise doesn't complain. After all, his infatuation with America's lust for domination is why this dynamic works.

Kiku waits for Alfred to start, but when nothing happens, he glances back questioningly. Alfred is staring but not making eye contact, and it's not until Alfred's empty hand falls lightly on his side, his sternum, that he realizes what the other has been looking at.

"Every time," Alfred says softly. "I always f—" He cuts himself off, then yanks back his hand as though, ironically, Kiku has burned him. He can feel Alfred start to pull away, so he pushes off the table and stands so he can turn and latch onto Alfred's wrist. He doesn't let go as he hops up into the table instead. He pulls Alfred into another kiss, this one gentler, and then guides Alfred's hand to his erection.

Alfred is hesitant at first, but he follows Kiku's initiative and strokes him. Kiku tilts his head back and sighs. Holding onto Alfred's shoulder to steady himself, he eases back. Alfred releases his cock in favor of grabbing him by the waist and pulling him forward so he could hook his legs around Alfred's. This brings them both some delightful but unsatisfying friction, and it's not soon enough that Alfred is finally preparing him. He strokes the inner part of Kiku's thigh with his unoccupied hand, and that grounds Kiku enough to keep from squirming.

Finally, Alfred removes his fingers and prepares himself to enter so quickly that Kiku doesn't have time to miss the feeling. When Alfred enters him, he swears he sees stars. Even with Alfred's cleverly hidden and aptly applied lube, the friction is rough and hot and _perfect_. When Alfred starts to move, Kiku bites back a moan. He spares a thought of gratitude that Alfred doesn't mind a quiet lover (he'd grumbled a while ago that he was used to it) and then clears his mind of anything that isn't Alfred: his roaming hands gliding up and down Kiku's legs and hips, his pants as he quickens his pace, his sweat-matted hair plastered to his forehead.

Kiku grinds his hips a little when he feels himself near an orgasm. Alfred leans in and pulls him closer, and when they lock eyes Kiku comes with a shudder. Alfred slows his pace to let him ride it out. His heart thuds in his ears for a few long moments but quiets as he comes back down. As soon as he does, Alfred lets him go and pulls out. Kiku watches him bring himself to completion and spread his seed across Kiku's stomach. A flash of irritation crosses his mind, but Alfred is already looking apologetic and it's not like he tried to stop him anyway. He pushes himself carefully to a sitting position and takes Alfred's chin to pull him into a languid, rather chaste kiss.

"Sorry," Alfred says as soon as they separate, "I don't know how that was supposed to help you with your population growth problem." He grins. Kiku sighs but he doesn't object to Alfred handing him his clothes or to the way his shirt glues to him because of Alfred's mess.

* * *

The military demonstration wraps up, and Kiku turns a fraction to catch Alfred's reaction. Their bosses have gone off with their entourages to discuss official business, affording the two nations a chance to talk more informally.

Alfred continues leaning against the guard rail and looking out across the lot. "Looks like you don't need me anymore," Alfred says without looking at him. His tone is light and breezy in that way that Kiku recognizes by now as his attempt to void his words of emotion.

This realization dampens Kiku's urge to remind Alfred that he _never_ needed him and go with a half-truth instead. "We still need each other, America."

At the sound of his name, Alfred turns enough to place a gentle hand on Kiku's shoulder. "Sure beats the alternative," he says with a wistful smile.

**Author's Note:**

> One of the concessions of World War II was that Japan could not (and still can't) maintain an army. Shortly after, the United States agreed to station troops there to help defend the country. American might, indeed.
> 
> The "population growth problem" refers to Japan's negative population growth (not enough people are having babies to replace the population). One of their creative solutions was to pay foreigners to relocate for some set period of time -- imagine how _suggestive_ that might sound to a nation.


End file.
